


Who Needs Luck [When I've Got You]

by GraphiteFox



Series: Someone You'd Admire [1]
Category: Kingsman: The Secret Service (2015)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, First Kiss, Fluff, James is the awkward one this time, M/M, Percival is not-so-secretly incredible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-16
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-04-04 17:45:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4147008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GraphiteFox/pseuds/GraphiteFox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James likes to act first, think later, but when it comes to Percival, all he does is think.  Luckily, Percival is happy to pick up the slack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Needs Luck [When I've Got You]

**Author's Note:**

> There seems to be a consensus in the fandom that James is the one who does all the courting with confidence, so I thought, wouldn’t it be fun if James was the nervous one instead?

                So far, it hasn’t been James’s best mission. It started off well enough, but now he’s weaponless, breathless, covered in blood (most of it _is_ his own, sadly), and being pursued by one of the biggest men he’s ever seen. Also, it’s all his fault, so sympathy is going to be hard to come by.

                “Percy, there’s a giant Russian here who wants to hand me my ass. I could really use some backup!” His oxfords are slipping on the roof tiles and right now luck and speed are the only things keeping him from plummeting to his death. Of course, the burly Russian behind him is in heavy boots with thick treads; he’s also not gushing blood from his abdomen. Rather unfair, James thinks, as he scrambles to put some distance between them.

                “Don’t you mean Italian?” Percival’s unruffled voice comes through the coms. He’s up on one of the nearby roofs with his rifle, prepared to pick off stragglers. Which, incidentally, is exactly what James needs him for.

                “No, I mean Russian, and yes, I am aware that we’re in Italy. We can discuss the nuances later, I really need you to shoot him.”

                He hears Percival mutter “Nuances…” and then nothing.

                “Please tell me you’re getting ready to shoot.”

                Percival doesn’t respond, which isn’t encouraging, because the Russian is closer than James would like. Suddenly, his foot jerks sharply to the right, sending him sprawling across the tiles. It hurts as much as he expected it to, which is more than he’d like.

                “Fucking hell,” he gets out before his attacker is on him, meaty fists coming right for his face. He dodges the first but the second catches him on his ear, and a tinny sound fills his head. James kicks out, cracking his shoe against the man’s knee. It works briefly, but he doesn’t have enough strength left at this point to really damage. Before he’s on his feet, the Russian has his hands around James’s ankle and is yanking him back down.

                There’s a glint and James sees the knife as it’s arcing down towards him.

                “For Christ’s sake, Perciv--!”

                The Russian jerks back, then his massive body slumps down. Blood wells up and begins to leak down the bridge of his nose. The knife skitters down the tiles and disappears over the edge. James sighs and collapses on his back, squinting against the sun.

                “Aren’t you going to call it a lucky shot?”

                “Lucky shot,” James murmurs back. He’s feeling dizzy with the blood loss now.

                “You’re fortunate I didn’t hit you, what with you yammering in my ear nonstop. It makes it hard to concentrate.”

                The sound of Percival deconstructing his rifle fills the coms for a moment.

                “I have absolute faith in your skill,” James responds.

                “What, no joke?”

                “Kind of distracted,” James replies, glancing down at his waist, then rests his head on the tiles with a sigh. He’s going to be scheduled so much bed rest after this.

                “Are you injured?”

                “Maybe.”

                “How badly?” There’s a small huff of breath, likely Percival jumping between buildings.

                “Well, I won’t die. Probably.”

                A shadow blocks the sun from his face for a moment and James smiles without opening his eyes. “If that’s not you, Percival, can you please just shoot me and have done with it?”

                The disgusted sound he gets in response is very clearly Percival. “Merlin, are you in Control?”

                It only takes a moment for the tech wizard to respond. “I’m here.”

                “We need a helicopter.”

                “You have a jet.”

                “Yes, but Lancelot’s been shot and he’s lying on a roof.”

                “That’s most inconvenient.”

                “I aim to please,” James cuts in. Percival is devising a makeshift tourniquet and he doesn’t need to look at the other agent’s expression to know that the wound is bad. The tips of his fingers feel cold. “I’m going to pass out,” he warns Percival. “Sorry.”

 

+

                He wakes up in the infirmary at HQ, which means Percival didn’t deign to leave him to die on a roof in Italy. That’s always nice.

                He’s got a decent layer of stubble on his jawline, so he’s been out for a bit. A few days, at least.

                And yet there are no teary-eyed visitors waiting for him.

                “Disappointing,” he mumbles, and looks for water. It’s on the other side of the room, of course.

                Thankfully, the door cracks open and Percival sticks his head in. “Welcome back.”

                “Thank you. Bring the water with you, will you?”

                He’s got a garment bag slung across his arm, but James is more interested in the water. He drinks three cups worth before sighing. “Better.”

                “It’s about time you woke up.”

                “Yeah, well. Just trying to avoid my inevitable scolding. Does Merlin know I’m up yet?”

                “Undoubtedly,” Percival responds, tilting his head towards the camera tucked into the corner, near the ceiling.

                “Quick, knock me out.”

                “Normally, I’d be happy to. In this situation, however, Merlin scolding you provides more entertainment than punching you would.”

                “Charmer,” James returns. He still feels a bit bleary, probably the painkillers. With any luck he’ll be asleep again before the Scotsman has a chance to get down to the infirmary.

                Percival settles down in the chair next to the bed and James wonders who’s spent time there, if anyone. Percival is too neat and clean-shaven to have dedicated much time to waiting for James to wake up. Pity.

                “How did you manage to get a bullet in the abdomen anyway? You should have been covered.”

                “It was a lucky shot,” James mutters. “Caught me just when my jacket came open. Which is not my fault at all, shoddy button.”

                But Andrew and the tailors’ work is beyond reproach. Percival doesn’t go for it. “Were you perhaps showing off at the time?”

                “Whatever do you mean?” asks James. He’s doing his Picture of Innocence look, which fools absolutely nobody here anymore.

                “I mean,” says Percival, and there’s a hint of a grin on his face, “jumping around so you can make dramatic kill shots.”

                Damn.

                “I might have been doing something of the sort. It’s for Merlin’s benefit, you know. Poor guy, stuck watching us run around. I was just trying to liven up the feed.”

                “Yes, well. You nearly bleeding to death on a roof really accomplished that.”

                “Thankfully I have you,” James says, and Percival scoffs.

                “You wouldn’t have been in such a predicament if you weren’t so trigger happy.”

                “True,” James agrees. “I think I need to start wearing my suits with more buttons.”

                “I may have resolved that issue.” Percival uses the IV stand to hold the garment bag and unzips it, revealing a neat, handsomely cut vest in the same fabric pattern as James’s usual suit.

                “It’s a waistcoat,” he explains unnecessarily. “I had Andrew make one according to your measurements.”

                “A bulletproof vest. You had him make me a bulletproof vest.”

                “A stylish one,” Percival replies. He zips the bag back up and carefully lays it across the chair. “No more lucky shots.”

                James smiles as he settles back into his pillows. “Now I only have to worry about a head shot from you.”

                Percival bristles, as he always does when James starts poking fun at his shooting. James can’t imagine why. No one in Kingsman can pull off the kinds of shots that Percival can, and no one can tolerate working with James for very long either. Except Galahad, but after an incident in Malaysia that involved twelve blocks of PE-4, Arthur officially banned them from performing missions together. It had been worth the suspension, really, and Harry agreed.

               “Are you questioning my aim?” Percival asks, his mouth pulled tight. “I know to avoid the loud, annoying one by now.”

                “Actually, I was implying that shooting me would be your intent.”

                “It would save us all a lot of trouble,” says Merlin as he stalks into the room, examining his clipboard.

                “You didn’t even knock,” James protests.

                “For you, no.”

                He catches Percival’s gaze, silently pleading for the other man to stay. Percival’s mouth quirks. “Goodbye, Lancelot.”

                “Oh, come on! Don’t be like that!”

                “I’m not getting paid to keep you company. Again, goodbye.” He raises two fingers in a brief salute, then nods to Merlin and shuts the door behind him.

                “So,” says Merlin, crossing his arms. “Let’s discuss the mission, shall we?”

 

+

                It’s four months before he’s cleared to do fieldwork and he’s practically vibrating with pent-up energy. When Merlin tells him that the target is hiding out at the _circus_ , he’s not sure if it’s a gift or a joke.

                “I’m sorry, you’re saying the _entire circus_ is filled with acrobatic assassins?”

                “Not entirely,” Merlin replies dryly. “But the trapeze artists and gymnasts surely are.”

                His face must look like a child’s on Christmas morning because Merlin immediately launches into a very serious, very detailed description of what James is _not_ allowed to do on this mission. The words “explosives” and “prodigious gunfire” are mentioned.

                “Just let Percival take out the target and try to avoid causing a scene.”

                James mumbles something affirmative.

 

                                                                                                                          ~

                “You’re trying to think of a _Cirque du Soleil_ pun, aren’t you?” asks Percival, as they’re sitting in the cab on the way. He’s got his rifle in a black bag, and occasionally he leans down to examine all the parts.

                “Maybe,” James says, his leg jumping up and down.

                “Well, stop.”

                “How about _Cirque du Slay_? No, too boring.”

                Then Percival’s hand comes down on James’s leg, holding his knee down firmly. Percival’s eyes are so dark, but they’re soft. James stares, silent for once.

                “Stop,” Percival says gently, and pulls his hand away. He goes back to inspecting his rifle.

                A different kind of excitement is thrumming in James’s veins now. He can still feel Percival’s hand on his knee, warm and slender. Percival doesn’t touch anyone if he can help it, so either he was really annoyed, or he wanted to touch James.

                James has been considering ways to gauge Percival’s interest for a while now. It’s really the only cowardly thing he’s done, or not done, to be more accurate. He doesn’t believe in inaction, but…

                What if Percival doesn’t like him and won’t work with him anymore? What if Percival does like him but refuses because they’re colleagues, or because James is ridiculous, or because Venus is in retrograde? Uncertainties, too many uncertainties. James doesn’t do uncertainties; he does a full on barrel roll into situations, but Percival is not a situation. He’s a friend and a partner and a really _gorgeous_ man that makes James happy just by existing.

                James would rather spend a lifetime pining, but mostly happy, than risk it all.

                What he needs to focus on now, instead of Percival, is the mission. Right.          

                It doesn’t go as planned, because before Percival can take out the target, James gets into a fight with a clown. And Merlin was _wrong_ , it is an entire circus of assassins, and before long the tent is in flames and Percival is sighing over the coms.

                “Merlin asked for a quiet mission.”

                “I did try,” James replies, picking his way through the bodies. “I hate clowns.”

                “Everyone hates clowns. Not everyone shoots them though.”

                “Hey, that was self-defense. He tried to break my neck. I’ve never seen a clown move so fast, I swear to God I’m going to have nightmares.” He checks his pocket for cash. “Want some cotton candy?”

                “Why would I?”

                James takes two from the case anyway, and slips the tenner into the abandoned register. Behind him, the remainder of the tent groans and collapses.

                Once they’re settled back in the cab and Percival’s complained that James smells like fire and grease paint, he pulls at the cotton candy and tries not to look smug. Merlin will be furious, and will want him to review the footage so he can point out all the places where James could have done something different. James loves reviews; he puts on a serious face but internally, he’s enjoying seeing himself in action.

                He’d love to see Percival fight, come to think of it. Not sniping, that’s impressive but boring. No, he’s thinking a real fight, back against the wall, all out brawling. Not that it would ever come to that. Percival is aware and organized; even in a fight it would be the minimum amount of reaction to achieve the greatest result.

                “How come you’re always out of the action on some rooftop?” James asks.

                Percival chews at a mouthful of sugar strands and looks despairingly at his fingers, which are coated in the blue fluff. “That’s because you’re like a hyper dog in an antique store. Best to just stand back and let you break everything since you’ll do it anyway.”

                “Can’t you just say ‘bull in a china shop’? It’s just as cliché and twice as pretentious if you change the words.”

                Percival considers this for a moment, then shrugs. “You’re not a bull. You’re a hyper dog.”

                “Ruff!”

                Percival grimaces and shoves the cotton candy at him. “I can’t eat this anymore. I feel like I just swallowed a bag of sugar.”

                “You probably did,” James agrees, starting on Percival’s portion. It reminds him of the seaside, and childhood.

                “You’re going to get sick,” Percival says, and takes the paper cone back. He rolls down the cab window and chucks it out. James has a vague memory of being seven, doubled over in the back of his parents’ car and holding his stomach. He wonders if 30-odd years later he’d have gotten the same result. Oh well.

                “That was just rude.”

                Percival wets his fingers with whiskey from the cab bar and rubs at them with his handkerchief. The cab smells of alcohol and sugar and smoke. James’s leg starts bobbing again.

                After a minute of this, Percival grabs his knee and James covers his hand with his own: a planned attack. He feels the other agent tense, but Percival doesn’t pull away.

                If there was ever a good sign, James thinks.

                He raises his hand like he’s releasing a butterfly. A moment passes before Percival pulls away.

                James settles back into the seat, closes his eyes, and smiles.

+

 

                The driver drops them off at the shop, but there’s no point in going inside. Merlin’s already advised them that he’s not in the mood to see them and James isn’t one to volunteer for a scolding. He’s feeling a little brave, and a little wired from all the sugar and violence.

                “Shall we get a drink?” he asks.

                Percival lifts his rifle bag. “I need to bring this home.”

                Damn. “Right. Can’t really carry that around.”

                Percival tilts his head to the side, just for a moment. It’s his way of thinking, something James has noticed recently. It amuses him.

                “We can have a drink at my place.”

                That’s not something James ever expected to hear. It’s both encouraging and terrifying.

                “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

                “Manners, really?” Percival says with a chuckle.

                “I have my moments.”

                Percival’s flat is exactly like Percival: quiet, organized, comfortable. He leaves James in the living room while he goes to store his rifle. There’s a vintage secretary desk under the window, the sofa and chaise are quilted brown leather, and there are three carved bookshelves that reach to the ceiling, almost entirely full. Curiously, there are several children’s books near the bottom of one shelf. He’s perusing one when Percival returns.

                “Of course you’d choose that one.”

                “Is that a comment on my reading level or my habit of finding things you don’t like to talk about?”

                “Both,” Percival replies, flipping two low ball glasses onto their bases. “And before you ask, I have a goddaughter.”

                Picturing Percival interacting with children is a little too much for James to process right now. He slips the book back into its spot on the shelf.

                Percival hands him a glass of whiskey and they sit across from each other. His leg is restless and he puts his own hand on his knee to still it. It’s not the same feeling.

                “You have a nice place. It suits you.”

                Surprise flits across the agent’s face. “Thank you.”

                They sip their drinks for a moment and James wishes he’d stop feeling so anxious. Out in the field it’s even ground; this is Percival’s home. It’s inherently personal and James never thought he’d be in it. It makes Percival real, and makes James’s feelings real, which makes everything worse.

                “How upset do you think Merlin will be tomorrow?”

                Percival shrugs. “Depends on how the rest of his evening goes. You know he only gets so cross because he’s worried, right?”

                “What’s there to worry about? It’s us.”

                “Perhaps because on our last mission you almost bled out.”

                “Oh, right.”

                Work is easy to fall back onto, because it’s all they really have. Well, it’s all _he_ really has. Percival has a goddaughter and, by extension, friends, and a neat, organized flat, and a very slightly asymmetrical face that sets his glasses off on occasion. James doesn’t even know his real name because Percival has never volunteered it, and it would be too invasive to ask, and while James loves to pry and press, he never goes for anything personal, not with Percival.

                He’s the only agent who tolerates James’s antics, and near-incessant talking, and knows how to ease his restlessness. James won’t jeopardize that—he can’t.

                “It’s amazing that you’ve survived this long,” Percival tells him.

                “Why’s that then?”

                “Let’s see,” says Percival, setting his drink down on the table. “Rampant property damage, explosions, your penchant for throwing yourself into situations without thinking. There’s a reason Merlin doesn’t have any hair.”

                “Nice try, he was bald before I was recruited.”

                This earns him a short chuckle.

                “Still. You’re either really lucky, or really good.”

                “Who needs luck when I’ve got you at my back?” James replies cheerfully. “Half those kills were yours, easy.”

                “I didn’t think you noticed.”

                “I always notice you.” It takes him a moment to realize that he’s said that aloud, and that Percival is frowning, and damnit, he must have read the situation wrong. The cowardice is back and Percival still hasn’t said anything, which means it’s really bad, isn’t it? He needs out, now, _now._ He sets his glass down on the table.

                “Thank you for the drink. I’ll show myself out.”

                “Lancelot.”

                “Good night,” he says with a smile, and it isn’t until he’s out in the cool night that he lets himself despair.

 

+

                It’s not really in his nature to wallow. Not for a lack of trying; he simply forgets to hold a grudge, or feel sorry for himself, and gets right onto the next thing. It isn’t until much later that he realizes he was supposed to be sad or angry, but by that point the feeling is long past.

                Nevertheless, he’s not ready to see Percival at 9 am, and even less ready to be sent back out into the field with him.

                “This is not my first choice, considering last night,” Merlin tells them over the coms, “but everyone else is busy and we need this data now.”

                “I love sight-seeing in the land of your people,” James replies. They’re in a helicopter over the Scottish landscape and it’s grey out, but bright, and James can just ignore Percival beside him and appreciate the scenery. They leave the helicopter and its pilot about a mile off from the site and trek in.

                When they catch sight of the building that their targets are holed up in, James groans. “This is a mental hospital, Merlin. An _abandoned_ mental hospital. Do you know what happens to people who wander into places like this? They _die_.”

                “Be as dramatic as you’d like, that’s still where the data is.”

                “And it can stay there, is all I’m saying. Leave them there long enough and the problem will solve itself. I’ve seen enough horror films to know how this works.”

                Merlin sighs. “Percival, please tell me this irrationality does not extend to you.”

                “It doesn’t,” Percival confirms, and James shoots him a sharp look of betrayal. Then he remembers that he doesn’t want to look at Percival, because the agent’s eyes are dark and soft, and his hand is warm and slender, and he doesn’t care for James in the same way James cares for him, and it’s all just—

                “…name is Michaelson,” Merlin is saying. “Bring me everything he has: laptop, flash drives, cell phone. If he’s secretly an android, bring me his body.”

                “You’ll humor the possibility of an android mercenary, but not vengeful spirits in an abandoned _mental hospital_ that has been torturing patients for over a hundred years,” James cuts in, sounding more than a little bitter.

                “Try to avoid detonating anything,” Merlin responds. “It’s an old building.”

                There’s the sound of a microphone being shut off, which means Merlin has lost interest in the conversation. He’ll chime in again when he’s most needed (or least wanted, James thinks. He has many memories of fun interrupted by the Scotsman’s dry voice in his ear).

                “Are you superstitious?” asks Percival. He doesn’t seem to be taunting, just curious.

                “Not as a rule, but look at the place!”

                Percival doesn’t seem the least bit uncomfortable. “Stay close,” is all he says, before drawing his pistol.

               

                                                                                                                        ~

 

                If there are ghosts, James thinks, as he shoots a sixth man in the head, they can wait their fucking turn. The place is overrun with mercenaries—clever ones, too, since they waited until he and Percival separated before swarming. Could be worse, he reminds himself, as he uses another man’s back as a springboard. Could be zombies. Zombie doctors performing zombie lobotomies on zombie patients and—

                A solid blow to his chin interrupts his thoughts. He _hates_ getting punched in the face, honestly, so this man gets three bullets to the forehead even though he’s supposed to be conserving ammo. The mercenaries are far less concerned about that and James finds himself on the run, a spray of bullets trailing him.

                “Try the door to your right,” Merlin supplies.

                “ _Try_?” snaps James, as he blunders through it anyway. They’ve found that Merlin’s blueprints are of little use here. The building has survived three separate fires, but various portions are collapsed, or filled with furniture, or home to cells, which James is not getting into for _any_ reason whatsoever.

                At least there’s plenty of sunlight streaming in through the damaged façade, so he can see where he’s running. It gives him a perfect view of the dead end he’s facing.

                Shit.

                “I’m a little fucked here, and not in a good way!” he shouts. Then he remembers that Percival isn’t holed up on some rooftop about to start picking off baddies. He’s somewhere in this mess dealing with attackers of his own. James feels suddenly exposed.

                His only bit of luck at the moment is that there’s one entrance into the room, which means the mercenaries will have to enter one-by-one if they want to get him. That places them on an even footing, more or less.

                Then there’s the sound of rapid gunfire and the mercenaries are shouting. A body falls in the doorway and James lunges forward, grabbing the gun out of the dead man’s hand. Then he freezes.

                Percival is engaged in hand-to-hand combat with the three remaining mercenaries, who have snuck in too close for him to use the semi-automatic rifle he’s picked up from somewhere. As Percival mashes the butt of the rifle against one man’s face, James amends his earlier assessment to “too close to use it _properly_.”

                Seeing Percival fight is a gift, really, because the man is all cool, quick movements—nothing wasteful or unnecessary. There’s nothing showy about it, no dramatic leaps or rolls, but James is riveted. Then the knives come out.

                All he’s seen of Percival’s work is clean kill shots over long distance. He’s long assumed that the agent isn’t one to get his hands dirty. He’s been _so_ wrong.

                The rifle gets shifted across Percival’s back to make room for him to work, two precise military blades dispatching one mercenary, who sprawls on the floor gushing blood. The second man rushes him and gets a finger removed for his trouble; before he can even wail, Percival slashes his throat.

                The third mercenary tries to run, the litter of bodies around him finally sinking in. He’s stopped short by a knife in his calf.

                “Where’s Michaelson?”

                The man stumbles over his words for a moment before blubbering, “Kitchens, he’s in the kitchens with the rest!”

                “Thank you,” says Percival, and shoots him once in the head.

                James is staring, and he knows he should stop, but he really can’t. “Wow. Thank you for the rescue.”

                “My pleasure. Are you all right?”

                He’s got a busted lip from the earlier punch that’s still oozing and he’s lost the button on his jacket. His only real trauma is the residual awe from watching his partner turn a room of armed men into corpses. “Fine.”

                “Still scared?” Percival asks, with the twist of a smile.

                “Too annoyed to be scared,” James tells him. “Shall we get this over with then?”

                It’s one of the oldest rules of warfare: check to make sure the enemy is dead. Get cocky, get killed. So they’re both surprised when one of the mercenaries lifts his arm and fires directly at James.

                Percival answers the shot with one of his own, right between the eyes, and this time the man slumps down for good. Then he kneels beside James, gripping his shoulder.

                “Lancelot! James!”

                James rolls over with a groan and trails his fingers down his stomach. They hit something metallic and he holds up the bullet, mashed all to hell and still warm. There’s an indent in the weave of his waistcoat.

                “No more lucky shots,” he says, laughing, and for a moment Percival looks fit to punch him, but then he’s laughing too.

                “You bastard!”

                “How’s this my fault?”

                Then Percival has James’s lapels in his fists and is kissing him hard enough to steal whatever breath James has managed to recover.

                It’s not his ideal setting, if he’s honest, and his cut lip is burning, and they’re surrounded by bodies (and possibly angry lobotomized ghosts). But Percival is kissing _him_ , and there’s no more uncertainty, at least not about this, and James could not possibly feel happier.

                “Gentlemen, if you could find the strength to put your moment on pause until you’ve completed the mission, I would greatly appreciate it.”

                Percival jumps up, all business again, a flush in his normally pale cheeks. “Apologies, Merlin.”

                Merlin makes a humming sound. “You two always have the worst timing.”

                “Hey, from our point of view, you’re the one interrupting,” James says, brushing himself off.

                “And here I was going to give you both the rest of the day off.”

                “Right, mission, on it,” James replies quickly, and the Scotsman laughs over his victory.

                They pick their way over the bodies, repurposing several pistols. The semi-automatic stays with Percival, because he’s the better shot by far.

                Perhaps galled by the slaughter of their colleagues, the rest of the mercenaries have barred themselves in what used to be the cafeteria. It’s a wide open space with two entryways, which puts the agents at a disadvantage. Too many ways to be surrounded, even with adequate ammunition. They need to level the playing field.

                “Ideas?” Percival asks calmly, as he situates himself outside the first door.

                James tugs the grenade from his pocket. He’s been saving it, per Merlin’s advice to not bring the building down on their heads, but he’s thinking now’s as good a time as any. “I’m thinking ‘bull in the china shop’ routine. Or should I say, ‘hyper dog in the antique store?’”

                Percival smiles. With one hand he tugs out the familiar gold lighter. “Shall we?”

 

+

                “Everywhere you go,” Merlin complains, when they’re safely in the helicopter and shaking plaster dust from their hair, “fire and destruction.”

                “Hey, we got your precious data,” James points out.

                “You collapsed a ceiling on top of it.”

                “Don’t lie, you like a challenge.” It may be more than a challenge, because all the devices they took are white with dust. Beside him, Percival is cleaning his glasses and holding back laughter.  

                “Bring me everything you recovered but leave it in a sealed bag. Then go away, I don’t feel like seeing either of you.”

                “Yes, Mothe—Merlin.”

                There’s a growled invective and then the feed shuts down. James turns to Percival with a grin so wide it hurts.

                His partner grins back. “Did you hear him shouting ‘Don’t you dare!’ at us before we went in?”

                “Must have been something wrong with my com. All I got was white noise.”

                Percival laughs. “You really are horrible.”

                “And you’re incredible,” James returns. “The knives—I didn’t know you used knives.”

                “Guns aren’t always reliable,” Percival explains. “I like having something I can count on.”

                “Speaking of things you can count on, thanks again for having my back. Not that you’re a thing,” James adds quickly. “Person, you’re a person. Unless you’re an android, which makes you what? Part person, part thing?”

                “James, shut up.”

                “I’m trying to, I honestly am—“

                Percival leans in, smiling. “Shut up, James, because I’m trying to kiss you.”

                “Oh.”

                Their second kiss is even better than the first, not because his lip hurts any less (it still really fucking hurts), but because it’s not motivated by fear, or relief. It’s a “because I like you and I really want to” kind of kiss, which is the best kind according to James. It’s a little dusty and a little windy and a lot everything he’s ever wanted.

                For once, James doesn’t feel restless. Not even a little bit.

**Author's Note:**

> I know the settings are super ridiculous. I just really wanted to have fun so I went with whatever preposterous 3AM idea that popped into my head. :)
> 
> I like the idea of James being wound up and restless all the time (hence all the run-on sentences). Everyone kind of brushes him off and finds him annoying, but Percival can see past that, and tries to find ways to help James relax. And I wanted to play with the idea of a less serious Percival (still plenty serious compared to James, but not as uptight as the other agents would believe). James brings out the more playful qualities in Percival, and in return, Percival eases some of that nervous energy that plagues James.
> 
> In summation: my babiesssss *squishes their faces together*


End file.
